His Angleterre
by Darkfire75
Summary: FrUk. “He said he loved me, Francis.” France could feel wetness on his shirt and let his hands stroke at the other’s back gently. “That sodding prat said he loved me and he was shagging that bloody oaf the whole time!”


_**Author's note:**__ This was a fic I started awhile ago that turned a little angsty. It's FrUk, but it starts off with USUK and has mentions of RussUS as well. I just kinda went with it after awhile and didn't really know what I was trying to write __**about**__. But I knew I wanted France to pine after England and England to be heartbroken over America (because as much as I loooove Iggy to death and beyond, I like seeing him vulnerable and sad way too much ;A;). So yeah, here's this random piece that I never expected to finish :D_

***

It was just a quickie in the closet; that's all it was. England moaned and arched his back as the expert mouth licked and sucked him off. "O-Ooh," he murmured, hands tangling in the other's hair. "A-Al…"

His partner sucked harder and pulled back just as England released. He felt warm lips cover his own and a gloved hand stroke up and down his chest. The closet door was opened and America grinned back at him. "See you back at the meeting, Arthur." He was gone in a flash and England was left to dress and clean up himself.

Just as he was exiting the closet, he walked into France. "Bloody hell!" he growled. "Watch where you're going!"

"_Excusez-moi_?" France snapped. Then his eyes widened. "_Angleterre_…why were you in the closet?"

"N-No reason." He tried to walk around the other nation, but France stopped him.

"I saw Alfred coming out of the closet earlier…Were you…?"

England blushed furiously. "So what if we were? You've done it loads of times, I'm sure. Now excuse me."

He pushed past France and walked back to the meeting room. France watched him go with a solemn expression. Yes, he had had many 'meetings' in that closet before. But they never meant all that much to him; they were mere conquests during a desperate time of need. And for some strange reason, he had always hoped his _Angleterre_—

He stopped and frowned. _**His**__ Angleterre_? Since when was England _his_? He _hated_ England; loathed his language and his eyebrows, and the way he sneered when he got his way. And yet France could not imagine his life without the annoying island nation. He had always kept some tiny sliver of hope that England really _did_ care about France, that he was truly grateful to him for showing him his culture when he was growing up, for taking care of him, for always _being_ there, even if they fought 99 percent of the time.

He smiled sadly. No, England would always run back to America when he wanted to be satisfied. He loved his former colony and wouldn't even give France a second glance. Not that France _wanted_ to be with him. The very idea of having his cock inside England disgusted him.

Walking back into the conference room, he took his customary seat besides England and let his eyes linger on him. The Englishman was looking over a document, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "I am happy for you," France mumbled suddenly, before he could stop himself.

England blinked and turned to look at him, a scowl on his face. "What?"

"You and Alfred," he continued and England's face went red.

"S-Shut your mouth, frog," he hissed, looking around to make sure nobody else was listening.

"What is there to be ashamed of, _mon cher_? Aren't you happy?"

"I…I am," he said softly. "Look, can we not discuss this here?"

"Where would you prefer to discuss this? A private room?" He winked.

"Fucking pervert…"

The meeting started up again and France couldn't figure out why his heart was thumping so loudly against his chest when he talked to England. Normally, it was because he was so infuriated with the man. But at the moment, he felt relatively calm. America had stood up to deliver a speech on fixing global warming again, something about using Japan's ideas for gundams and building one to block the sun or something like that. He had stopped paying attention when he noticed England's solemn expression.

France followed his gaze and wasn't surprised to see it directed at America, but shouldn't England have been smiling? Blushing? Anything that showed he was happy? Even when the meeting was over, England looked sad and even though France had known him for centuries, he still could not figure out his moods.

Maybe talking to America would help clear things up? France walked towards the blonde and was about to open his mouth when Russia stepped in front of him. "Another silly idea, comrade," the large nation said with a cruel smile.

"Hey, Kiku was all for it," America shrugged with a teasing smirk.

"You are still such a child."

"You didn't say that last night."

France stood stock still for a few moments, eyes wide. Russia…with America? The idea wasn't completely ridiculous, but France thought of England and if he had known and— He turned around to see if the Brit was still there, but he had already packed up his papers and fled. Had he heard? Had he already known? France didn't wait to hear anything more as he rushed out of the room, hoping to catch up with the other nation. He found him stomping down the hallways towards the lobby and sped up.

"_Angleterre_!" he called. England stopped in his tracks and turned around. His eyes looked bloodshot.

"What the bloody hell do you want?" he spat, his voice cracking.

"Arthur…"

"Don't you have a nation to shag? Leave me alone!"

France glared at him. "Lashing out at me won't change anything." He stepped closer. "I am sorry—"

"Sorry for _what_, exactly?" England hissed. His shoulders were shaking and he looked as if he were about to cry. France hadn't seen him like this since he was a small boy. "Sorry for wishing me happiness? Sorry I was a _fool_ for trusting that lying piece of shite? I don't want to hear it, Francis." He turned away, but France grabbed onto his shoulder. "Don't touch me!" he cried.

But France didn't listen and instead, pulled the other man into an awkward embrace. He had done it countless times when they were younger, when England's brothers had bullied him and the little nation had run crying to him seeking comfort. England tried to push him away, but the Frenchman's grip was relentless.

"Shh, _Angleterre_," he whispered. "Let it out."

"You're a b-bloody git," England whimpered, wanting to hate him and realizing _he just couldn't_. "I'm so fucking stupid," he sighed.

"_Non_, you are in love."

"Ha, love," he sneered, staring off and clutching the other's shoulders. "I was _so_ happy when he came to me," he whispered into Francis' chest. "So happy that he was acknowledging me and I let my emotions get the better of me and—"

"It happens, _mon cher_."

"He said he loved me, Francis." France could feel wetness on his shirt and let his hands stroke at the other's back gently. "That sodding prat said he _loved_ me and he was shagging that bloody oaf the whole time!" He hiccupped and clung to him tighter. "Listen to me, spilling all my secrets. Bet you're gonna have a good laugh about this later with your pals."

"_Non_, this is for my ears only," he said soothingly. "I am not so heartless that I would laugh at your misfortune, _Angleterre_."

"You do all the time, you frog."

"This is different."

"How so? Nothing's changed between us."

France paused and looked into England's emerald eyes, which were staring at him curiously. "You have…hit a bump in the road in your love life, _mon cher_. As the country of love, I am under oath to help you."

"Bollocks. You expect me to believe that? Why did you _really_ follow me?"

The answer should have been easy for anyone else, but for two nations that had hated each other for so long, saying _'Because I was worried about you'_ just didn't sound right, even if it was the truth. France smiled. "Does my reason truly matter?"

"Yes," he growled.

"You will not like the answer."

"So?"

He sighed heavily. "I followed you because I was worried, _mon cher_."

England narrowed his eyes. "Worried?"

"_Oui_."

"About me?"

"Who else?"

The Briton froze in his arms, eyes widening. "No…Francis, you can't…"

"Can't what?" he replied, his smile fading, his heart pounding.

"I…It's too…" He backed away, staring at him as though he had just kicked his puppy.

"Odd? Crazy? Unreal?" he chuckled. "I know, _Angleterre_."

England shook his head. "It's not supposed to be like this," he mumbled.

"Hmm? And how is it supposed to be?" France moved closer to him again, slowly wrapped his arms around his waist. "Am I supposed to come in on a white horse like in all those silly fairytales you have?" He leaned down to lightly kiss the Englishman on the cheek. "Am I supposed to save you from some horrible disaster?" He moved his head down to kiss the racing pulse on England's neck. "Or am I supposed to confess my feelings to you during a grand festival in a beautiful city where no one knows our names?" He brought his lips down on the other's and England didn't resist him, didn't pull away this time. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him closer as he sobbed.

"You b-bloody fool," he said. "You've been holding that in all this time? All this fucking time?"

"I might have," France shrugged with a grin. "Does that matter now?"

England growled at him and kissed him roughly. "It…It might take me some time to get used to this," he muttered.

"Luckily, we are not slaves to time like humans, _oui_?"

England blushed furiously. "Bloody sap. I'm never going to be rid of you, am I?"

France smiled and kissed him gently. "_Jamais, mon amour. Jamais._"

* * *

_Also, I'm sorry I made America seem like a bad guy here! D: I LOVE YOU, AL, I REALLY DO ;A;_

French translations:  
Excusez-moi? - Excuse me?  
Jamais, mon amour. Jamais. - Never, my love. Never.


End file.
